Mark Tidd, Editor

by Clarence Budington Kelland

  CHAPTER XVI

  I'll bet you've forgotten all about Spragg, the Eagle Center _Clarion_man. If you have, you want to remember him again, for the time wascoming fast when he would be right on hand like a case of mumps. Notthat mumps are generally on hand. When I had them they reached from oneear right around to the other, and Mark Tidd didn't have half so muchface as I did.

  Well, one day about the time the contest was getting nicely started up Isaw Spragg in town. He'd waited till things cooled down, and was thereat the hotel, nosing around just as if nothing had happened.

  "Howdy-do, Mr. Spragg!" says I, with my face as sober as a judge. "Hopeyou're feelin' well and gittin' all the exercise you need."

  "I'm feelin' well," says he, "but I'm short of exercise. I'll git it,though, and don't you lose sight of that. You kids think you're prettysmart, but my name's spelled S-p-r-a-g-g, see?"

  "No," says I, not seeing at all. What did _that_ have to do with it, Iwondered; but, just for luck, I thought I'd josh him a little. "Ithought your name was spelled M-u-d. Looked like that awhile back."

  "Go on," says he. "Keep heapin' it up. Perty soon I'll have enoughag'in' you boys to make it worth my while to git even. And when I setout to git even I do it with a plane," says he.

  "Reg'lar carpenter, hain't you? I didn't know but a man with a namespelled like yours would even things off with a butter-knife, or maybe anursin'-bottle."

  "You better move away from here," says he, "before I lose my temper."

  "Huh!" says I, moving off where I'd have a good start if he came afterme. "Folks that loses their temper in Wicksville gen'ally gits all thehelp they want findin' it ag'in."

  "Go ahead," says he; "get all the laugh you can out of it now. Inanother day or two you'll be laughin' crossways of your mouth. Whatwould you smart newspaper kids say to a daily in Wicksville, eh? Reg'larcity daily. Guess that would sort of put the lid on that old weekly ofyours, wouldn't it? Spragg is my name. Begins with a capital S, rememberthat."

  I wasn't going to let on to him that what he said worried me, so I saidto him: "You'd have to be spryer 'n you be now to git out a daily. Theway you move around I guess a monthly's about _your_ speed."

  He made a move after me and I scooted down the street to tell Mark. Hewasn't in, though, and Tallow said he and Plunk had gone out to see Rockat the farm.

  "When he comes back," says I, "he'll have all the rock he wants, and itlooks to me like it would be rock bottom. We're goin' to be up against adaily paper here."

  An hour after in comes Mark and Plunk.

  "B-been studyin' the yard there at Rock's," says he, "and I c-c-can'tmake head nor tail to that message of Mr. Wigglesworth's. Found the cat,all right, and w-w-walked where she l-looked. M-measured off a hunderdand six feet, but there we come to n-ninety degrees in the shade.Stumped us. Found the shade, all right, but it wasn't ninety degrees.Held a t-thermometer, and it wasn't but sixty-seven."

  "It's goin' to be ninety degrees in the shade of this office," says I."Spragg's back and is goin' to start a daily to run us out of business."

  "How d'you know?" says he.

  "Spragg says so," I told him.

  "Hum!" says he. "I sort of d-doubt it. Spragg don't look like he hadmoney enough or gumption enough."

  "Maybe somebody's backin' him," says I.

  "Might be," says he. "Guess I b-b-better look into it."

  So he and I went out together, leaving Plunk and Tallow to mind theoffice.

  "A d-daily," says he, "would have hard sleddin' here. Don't b'lieve itwould make a go. But while Spragg was t-tryin' it he might hurt us alot. Two newspapers in a little town l-like this can't m-make money."

  "Neither can one," says I. "Anyhow we hain't got rich. Might as well betwo as one, so far's I can see."

  "The _Trumpet's_ goin' to pay," says he, and he shut his jaw tight, likehe does when he's made up his mind to do something or bust. "Spragg orno Spragg, we're goin' to make a reg'lar paper of the _Trumpet_--and gitmoney out of it. Don't go gittin' limp in the s-s-spine," he says.

  It don't take long in Wicksville to find out what's going on, becausethere isn't much going on, anyhow, and as soon as something turns up andone man hears of it, why, he can't rest or eat till he's run all overpeddling it to everybody he sees. And every man _he_ tells has to startout the same way, so in a half-hour from the time a thing starts almosteverybody in town is out looking for somebody to tell it to. That's whatmakes it so hard to run a newspaper. Everybody knows everything he readsin the paper as soon as the editor does. I guess about the only reasonfolks subscribe to the _Trumpet_ at all is to see if their own name ismentioned, or to say to somebody else: "Huh! There hain't never no newsin this paper. I knew every doggone thing printed in it two days beforethe paper come out."

  Well, that's why it wasn't hard for us to find out that Spragg reallywas planning to start a daily paper in town, nor to figger out that hedidn't have much money to start it with himself. He was trying to startwhat he called a co-operative paper. Co-operative means that one mangets a lot of other men to put their money into a thing with the ideathat they'll all get some good out of it, whereas nobody gets anythingbut the fellow that starts it.

  Spragg's notion was to put in a little money himself and to have themerchants and business folks in town put in the rest. His argument wasthat there was money in running a newspaper, and the money was made outof the advertising. So, if the men that put in the advertisements andpaid money for them owned the newspaper themselves, why, they would justbe paying the money to themselves, and the subscribers would pay thecost of getting out the paper. So the advertisers would be getting theiradvertisements practically for nothing. It sounded dangerous to me.

  I guess it worried Mark some, too, for if merchants could get theiradvertising in a daily practically without costing them a cent, whatwould they spend any money in the _Trumpet_ for?

  Spragg was just talking the thing up, but he was talking a lot, and itlooked like he had the business men interested. Where Spragg came in wasthat he was to be the editor and have a salary and a share of theprofits.

  Mark went and sat down on my steps and began to whittle like he alwaysdoes when he's got a puzzle on his mind. He whittled and whittled anddidn't say a word for an hour. Then he looked at me out of his twinklinglittle eyes that you could hardly see over his fat cheeks and says:

  "I guess Spragg's idee is to get these f-f-fellers all into the paper.They'll p-put their money in to start it, and p-perty soon they'll seethat their advertisements hain't free. Not by a big s-sight. And p-pertysoon they'll get disgusted and along Spragg'll come and buy their sharesof the paper dirt cheap. He f-f-figgers to come out at the other endwith a daily p-paper that didn't cost him hardly anything. And thenhe'll be where he can m-make some money."

  "Yes," says I, "because by that time, with all the stores not givin' usany advertisements, we'll be busted."

  "That," says he, "is how Spragg f-f-figgers it. But," says he, "I figgerit some d-different."

  "How do you figger it?" says I.

  "I f-f-figger," says he, stuttering like a gas engine just starting upon a cold morning, "that he hain't ever g-goin' to start any paper atall, and that we're goin' to keep all the business we've got, and thatMr. Spragg'll wisht he never heard of Wicksville or of the _Trumpet_ orof us."

  "Sounds good," says I, "and I've seen you pull out of a lot of deepholes, but this one looks to me like it would be too much for you. Iguess this time, Mark, you're up against it hard."

  "Binney," says he, "if Spragg b-beats us then you can p-paint a signsayin' 'idiot' and pin it on my b-back, and I'll wear it a month."

  You notice he said "us." That was just like him always. He wasn't whatyou'd call modest, but he was square with us other fellows that didn'tthink as quick and as shrewd as he did. We all got the credit for whatwas done if he could fix it that way. But I don't believe many folkswere fooled by it. They knew Mark Tidd and they knew us.

  "You can always catch f-f-folks with a sch
eme," says he, "that makes 'emthink they're gettin' somethin' for n-nothin'. But," he says, "I hain'tever seen anybody git somethin' without pay in' about what it wasworth."

  "Yes," says I, "if you coop a watermelon out of Deacon Burgess's garden,why, you pay for it by tearin' your pants on his barb-wire fence, or bygittin' the stummick ache."

  "That's about the idee," says he.

  "What you goin' to do first?" I says.

  "Haven't f-figgered it out yet," says he. Then he went to talking aboutthe contest.

  "How many subscriptions have we got in?" says he.

  "Lemme see," says I, "this is the third day it's been goin' andyesterday we had seventy. Tallow said we got in twenty-six this morning.That makes ninety-six."

  "Huh!" says he. "They hain't got warmed up yet. But we'll get 'em goodperty soon. They'll start comin' strong."

  We walked down the street and in front of the post-office was a crowdstanding around a couple of men that was arguing so you could have heardthem in the next township. Mark and I ran over to see what was going on,because newspaper men always ought to be right where things arehappening. We edged into the crowd and found out it was Mr. Strubber andMr. Bobbin, and they was quarreling about how smart their wives was.

  "Huh!" says Strubber. "Your wife wouldn't never have dared to git into acontest with my wife if she hadn't been forced. She was cornered anddassen't back down."

  "Strubber," says Bobbin, "I hain't denyin' your wife has her p'ints.There's ways where she can beat my wife all holler. Why, when it comesto takin' the broom and chasin' her husband around the house Mrs. Bobbinwouldn't even tackle the job at all. She knows without tryin' that Mrs.Strubber kin beat her good and plenty there."

  "You mean," hollered Strubber, "that my wife chases me with a broom? Youdast say that? Why, you miserable little swiggle-legged, goggle-eyed,slumgullion, Mrs. Strubber's as gentle as a lamb! Yes, sir, she's allbrain, that's what she is. If you was to take Mrs. Strubber's brain outand lay it on top of that thing _your_ wife calls a brain, it 'u'd belike coverin' a pea with a bushel basket."

  "Sure!" says Bobbin. "It's big all right, but you're right when youcompare it to a bushel basket. It's as thin and empty as any bushelbasket in Michigan."

  Strubber pretended to look at Bobbin careful, and then he laughed outloud. "Folks tells me," says he, "that you really eat the stuff Mrs.Bobbin cooks."

  "You bet I do," says Bobbin.

  "Lookin' at you," says Strubber, "I'm prepared to admit it. Nothin' elsewould make you look that way. I always wondered what made you sich apeeked, ornery, yaller-complected, funny-lookin' little runt like yoube. You must 'a' had a tough constitution when you got married, or youwouldn't never have survived all these years--if what you _be_ can becalled survivin'. As for me, I guess I'd rather not 'a' survived at allas to be what that cookin' has made of you."

  "Huh!" says Bobbin. "I hain't no tub of lard like _you_ be. What I gitis good wholesome food that makes muscles and brain. You get fed onsloppy stuff to fatten you. You know what we feed hogs, don't you, eh?Gather it up out of pails at folks' back doors. It fats up the hogs,too. Well, Mrs. Strubber, she uses that same method on you."

  "Be you comparin' my wife's cookin' to _swill_?" yelled Strubber,wabbling all over like a bowl of jelly he was that mad.

  "Not comparin'," says Bobbin. "And what goes for Mrs. Strubber goes forall the rest of them Lit'ry Circle wimmin."

  "Eh? What's that?" bellowed another man from the crowd. "I want youshould know _my_ wife b'longs to that Lit'ry Circle, and the finestwimmin in town does. Wimmin b'longs to that that would be ashamed to beone of them Home Culturers. Why, nobody b'longs to the Home Culturersbut folks the Lit'ry Circle wimmin wouldn't have nothin' to do with."

  "Is that _so_?" another fellow shouted, and began working close to therow. "My wife's a Home Culturer, and if you think I'll stand by to let aspindle-shanked, knock-kneed, bald-headed, squint-eyed wampus like yousay sich things, why, you're mighty badly mistook. Listen here. 'Tain'tdoin' no good to stand here fightin' about our wives. There's a conteston to see which ones is the best. I don't need no contest to tell _me_.But us men better shut up and let the contest go ahead. Then you Lit'ryCircle fellers will have to hunt your holes. Why, doggone you, them HomeCulturers will git two subscriptions to your one. Hear _me_. And when itcomes to cookin' and gittin' up a meal of vittles--well, jest wait,that's all I got to say."

  He turned around and began to push out of the crowd, and so did theother men. I guess they judged they was gettin' perty close to a fight,and that jest talking wouldn't answer the purpose much longer. I noticethat men is willing to stand and rave and tear and talk jest so long asit hain't likely to go any farther. But the minute things begins to looklike business, and spectators is all keyed up to see a fight, why, thetalking stops and the folks that started it all begins to disappearfast. Mostly a man that talks won't fight, and a man that fights keepshis mouth tight shut.

  Mark and I went along toward the office.

  "L-l-looks to me," says he, grinning like all git out, "as if f-folkswas beginnin' to git a bit het up over the contest."

  "Yes," says I. "I hope both sides don't turn to and get het up at us. Ifthey do," says I, "the South Pole is about the only place we'll be safe,and maybe not there."

  "I don't care," says he, "as long as it gits us s-s-subscriptions."

  Which was just exactly like him. Results was what counted.